


For King and Country

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Chair Week [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Boys in Chains, Chair Bondage, Collars, Deepthroating, Dom Loki (Marvel), Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Illusions, Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Loki Has No Regrets, Loki Posing as Odin, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Reluctant Thor, Rough Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Thor (Marvel) is Not Stupid, Thorki - Freeform, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 10:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14283192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: Thor returns to Asgard bearing news of a great victory, only to be accused of betraying the realm. His only chance for penance comes by serving the All-Father on his knees -- and it's not Odin he'll be paying lip service to. Loki makes good on a thousand years of pent-up need.





	For King and Country

Fanfare greets him in a glittering blast that rises to the heights of the vast hall. Trumpeters offer their fervent call and the assembled Aesir take to their feet to sing high praise in name of Thor Odinson, and from ten thousand throats roar triumph and victory.

He shivers as he walks up the long aisle flanked in the gold-helmed guardsmen, their spears straight and gauntleted hands upon the sheaths of their swords. Every last one stands in attendance ‒ upon him, and the news he bears.

At the head of the line stand the Warriors Three, each outfitted in a fresh cloak and, rather than armour, courtly attire. None carry a weapon, as is the custom. _How Fandral looks fine in his smart green tunic, and the crimson weave on Volstagg smart in spite of his prodigious girth._

He grins to them as he does to all his kinsmen gathered close, the collective pressure building on the sides of the aisle. The only places absent give him grim pause ‒ his mother, departed from this world in all her splendour, a hole filled by the stern, raven-haired Lady Sif.

Much as he yearns to call out to her, Thor cannot. The rules of precedence demand his first words are given to Odin and no one else. She carries her sword, naturally, her winged helm dipping in near imperceptible acknowledgment. Her smile, faint though it is, gladdens Thor. The other space belongs to Heimdall, a regular gap accorded to Sif's right side.  

Mind, he was happy enough to offer his greetings to the watcher on the Bifrost. Thor's heart is light as he rises to face the great gilded barque holding his father, elevated several steps above the general hubbub.

Odin All-Father, proud and stern, gazes down on him with one pitiless eye and measures his eldest son from golden head to battered boots. The expression he wears could be one of any of the thousands of days of his life, smug and mildly amused by the affairs of the world.

Thor hasn't ever forgotten his father's reputation for being a sly, cold-blooded bastard, nor failed to witness firsthand those greater plots in motion by the old man's intrigues. But the breath he holds escapes slowly as the inclination of that hoary, grey head imparts a certain vital permission.

Asgard watches as he passes the Warriors Three, then Sif, and takes the first step to the throne.

“All-Father, I crave your leave to announce my intentions to Asgard,” he intones every word in ringing clarity, the ancient declaration of a warrior in the realm’s service to its mighty leader.

A collective sigh drips out of the masses hanging on every word. It has been months, as Asgard reckons time, since any of the citizens of the proud realm last set eyes on their prince. Children cling to the legs of their parents, struggling to see. Courtly rules forbid anyone from hoisting a lass or lad to broad shoulders, and the smallest carried in their parents’ arms know little of the pageantry unfolding before them, as it has for their forefathers and their forefathers before them in an unbroken succession over millennia.  

He humbles himself in a low bow; the crowd collectively inhales, and the ringing, resonant _thump_ of Gungnir colliding with the dais thunders out around them in waves.

 _Ah, to be home. Even if this cape itches something burdensome_. Thor smiles into his short beard.

Such a sound commands full attention, and the very acoustics of Valhalla redouble the harmonics to the furthest reach and into the whole of the realm. Even Heimdall on the Bifrost feels those tremors underfoot, a consequence of import marking the moment in Asgardian history.

The first of the crowd go to their knees, rather than stand. He clears the second riser, braving a look up at his father seated in majestic splendour.

“All witness the return of Thor Odinson, rightful prince of Asgard!” Sif turns to the amassed folk, her voice pure and high. She makes a fine herald, a role rarely offered to any woman. The All-Father prefers often to act as his own spokesperson, but seeing her at the foot of the All-Father's throne -- at the heart of court -- pleases Thor to no end. 

He grins, and another step claimed as he remains bowed over. The sonorous boom of the spear butt hammering into the dais announces the landing of his knee in deep obeisance, arm swept back.

Sif does right by him. “All witness the victory of the God of Thunder over the dread Mallebodr,  the dread scourge of the wastes of Nidavellir!”

 _"_ And the saviour of the stone lords, vanquished of the trolls in the Seared Vale, the ravager of drink, the prince of song," Thor murmurs to himself. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from adding to the excess titles sung of him.

Odin grips his blazing golden spear in his left hand and leans forward in the throne, commanding the attention and notice of all his subjects. To a one they roar, their pure voices light and lyrical, vibrating the very roof off Valhalla and sinking to the very bones of the Asgardian realm.

Closing his eyes, the god smiles. He is _home_. Thor raises his head again, and straightens before the man standing at the center of the Nine Realms, inscrutable and remote. “Father! I have brought Asgard glory and her subjects fame for valour and strength of arms. The people of Nidavellir praise our honour and our commitment to treaties sworn in your name!”

His people cheer, the fanfare quieter. All revolves on the will of the All-Father above, and he dips his head. The sound swells with the rich brilliance of tenor and alto, basso and soprano tunes as a hymn.

“So you are, Thor of Asgard. So you are.” Odin holds out his hand to the assembled masses, indicating them in a broad gesture of his hand.

Sif has her appointed role, rotating around to face the interior for the great hall. Light flashes on the wings of her helm. “Do you acknowledge, people of Asgard, this deed claimed by Thor, your prince?”

Thor's eyebrows furrow, the change in precedence taking him aback. This isn't standard, but then, his father keeps such reasons to himself. Clearly some among the Asgardians understand the role they play, for they eagerly respond, “Yeah!” and “Aye!” in hearty shouts, and his concern allays around the rising groundswell.

Fully wreathed in the burning light of a thousand floating torches, their eldritch flames reflecting off his gilded armour, the All-Father gazes long upon the younger god upon the stairs. Behind him the dramatic knotwork stamped in crisp detail into the ancient, double-sided throne seems to come alive, monstrous beasts and glorified warriors stalking one another in an endless battle. He has long stared upon the bewildering loops and angles drawn by the knotwork since his boyhood. Once upon a time, Loki claimed to know the unraveling of it all.

Daring another step higher, Thor thrusts his hand into the air. “Aye, Father, and glad am I for my return.”

“Kneel, and receive the tribute of the All-Father in recognition of your achievements,” Odin says. He returns to his great seat of power. Beside him the imposing presence of his mighty spear sheds a peculiarly strong radiance, ignited along the wicked curves of its pointed blade.

Relief then, and Thor goes down to one knee to a smattering of acclaim. No doubt he could juggle three goats and receive the same admiration from his peers and subjects. But his father has never been an easy man to please, and this achievement laid out at Odin’s feet surely demonstrates his worth. _Again._

He draws out a breath, familiarizing himself to the wholesome resins of the great carved reliefs and the particular perfumes and scents that symbolize Asgard ‒ and home ‒ as found nowhere else. A throne he stands to inherit, but none too soon, and he truly would like to be out of his armour and feasting. He hasn't had a proper feast in longer than he cares to remember.

Fandral glides up beside him, accompanied by Hogun, ever dour and near silent. The sly rogue shares a smirk in profile, possibly unseen by the All-Father.

“I've leave to remove your cape?” he murmurs, though half the court assembled nearby hears the request.

“Naturally.” Even in agreement, Fandral waits on Thor, who acquiesces with a sigh. “Yes, you have my leave.”

Immediately the heavy weight of the red fabric detaches from his shoulders, the metal pins slid free and leaving his armour and tunic visible. Fandral turns away and turns over the bundle he folds up to some other unseen assistant. Thor strives to glance aside without moving his head, but a light tweak on his golden hair faces him forward again. Hogun, perhaps, who he shall deal with promptly after the pomp and circumstance. 

“Have we leave to grant the All-Father's benediction?” asks the grim warrior.

“Yes, verily.” All he wants is a warm bed, a flagon of mead, and possibly Sif to warm him. Memories of the lithe brunet soldier arching and flexing under him in a cry of ringing pleasure he banishes from his thoughts.

 _Soon. This is merely a formality._ He means to return to New York as soon as hospitality allows. The spellbinding delights of his lover -- frosty-eyed, so composed under his composure decays into guttural sighs of pleasure and words of command -- leave an ache in his breast even now. The absence of Bucky is an intolerable thing.

Odin's black eye flashes. The air weighs heavier. Thor snaps his attention back into the moment.

Fandral and Hogun take up their positions just behind him, and they must hold something between them. His peripheral vision allows little confirmation except a gleam of gold, and he tenses his shoulders in anticipation. Odin remains unreadable on high, and he hardly knows what the old goat is up to until the first brush of something wrought and corded against the back of his neck between his hair and the reinforced rim of his armour.

“A torc?” he whispers aloud when two substantial cords drape down his back in addition to the weight already around his neck. No mere cloth, that, not to be so heavy and malleable.

Neither conceives of an answer, their hands leaving him.

Still, other than the slightly snug fit of the metal torc wound around his throat, he has little to go off other than remaining patient. His fingers stray up to touch the terminal ends carved into snarling dragon's heads, or at least some kind of archaic beast, and the energy transferred between them shocks his fingertips.

Thor's disquiet radiates around him, though he hardly sucks his stung fingers in front of everyone. His gaze lifts immediately to the All-Father on his throne. “Father‒”

“Silence,” Sif says as Fandral hisses it to him.

But he will not be silent. As he draws breath, the golden collar spontaneously tightens around his throat and presses down on his collarbone. No sooner can Thor inhale than conjure a skyscraper for the fanfare of his people. All at once, his face flushes under a rose bloom and the crawling motes of light filling his gaze take on a decidedly blue-white shimmer. Anyone in their right mind would be inclined to swiftly remove themselves from the vicinity. Guards flex back from the dais.

Fandral and Hogun back away, not that he cares. The focus of the blast radius is bound to lie forward. Outside, the clouds grumble their disapproval, booming as the electricity discharges through the growing black cumulus ceiling.

Odin draws breath and all from the nearest to the furthest corner of his hall hears his voice as clear as if they stood at his shoulder. “All witness the prince who neglects his duties!”

“What?” The frown hangs there a moment longer, the pressure choking him holding on a moment too long as he struggles to process the turn of events. His voice returns for a moment. “What duties? I have committed myself to the cause of honouring our allies in Nidavellir and Vanaheim.”

Sharp looks pinned to his back make his flesh creep uneasily along his spine, but he dare not look away from the craggy, noble visage that is unreadable to him now as it was when he was a boy of six hundred. His teeth clench, the old burning wyrm of anger coiling in his belly. _Is nothing good enough for you, old man? Answer me that!_

As if he hears, Odin scowls past the assembled Aesir Court to his people. He slants his head at the staircase and Thor, alone, upon it. “Behold Thor, who favours _Midgard_ to his obligations to mighty Asgard's defenses.”

His stomach clenched. A pang of rage strikes deep and Thor closes his fist, longing for good uru and the familiar hum. No, he _must not_ call Jarnbjorn. No, not when there lies a chance the man who forged it might deprive him. No matter what else, Odin holds that power over his head.

When he strives to speak, the torc cuts him off. Not only air but thin points of pressure applied to his larynx, severing his capacity to so much as moan.

Blue sparks form in around his fingers, and arcing plasma plays over his spiking hair that stands out from his scalp under the glowing halo.

Odin stands to address them all, Gungnir at his side. “Hear the charges laid against you. Whilst you cavort with wyrms, Asgard stands in the greatest peril.”

Remaining on his knee, Thor has little choice but to fight against the supple bond wound around his neck. The scraping metal strands running down his back seem to anchor to the knotwork inlaid in the floor, resisting his efforts to climb another stair. Though not weakened, he certainly can't seem to haul himself further.

Is that a smile on the old man's face? Not directly, but the flash of bitter mirth comes and goes while the revelation of his predicament settles in. Thor knows full well that his father _enjoys_ this, and that for some reason horrifies him the same as it convinces him to struggle further, renewed energy thrown into overcoming the resistance set against him.

“Where was Thor Odinson when we manned the battlements against jotun armies and interstellar ships?” Odin shouts to the crowd. They snarl and seethe in low growls, where before they laughed and praised him. “Striking at ants! Look upon your prince well.”

Sif refuses to meet his eyes when he beseeches her with a wordless intensity. That sword of hers can cleave dimensions, and it remains stubbornly sheathed at her side in its tooled sheath. Thor closes his fist, pulling at the metal, reaching for the prodigious strength his by right of birth.

It doesn't come.

“Where was Thor Odinson when Heimdall warned of traitors in his lonely vigil?”

The All-Father’s question beckons a wail from a woman somewhere in the crowd. “They slew my husband on patrol, the filthy beasts!”

A deep, low murmur presages trouble. One of the metal bindings winds around his leg, holding him fast. Thor twists against it to no avail, all the while as pressure forces him to look up and meet that pitiless eye.

Odin glares past him. His snarl shakes the battlements of Valhalla to the roots of the World Tree. “In congress with a human.”

 _Don’t bring him into this_. Once again he pulls and tests at his bonds, trying to sever them or snap them entirely. His muscles bulge, cords standing out at his neck and a vein pulsing in his forehead. For all that, Thor might as well try to drink the sea.

Asgardians shout their dismay; they press against the open space around the All-Father’s throne, sensing a turning in the tide. No longer is this a show of victory but something else, uglier, irresistibly poisoning the goodwill. They test for weaknesses, repulsed by the well-trained soldiers lined up shoulder to shoulder, holding fast against them. Spear and sword alike remain sheathed.

“All-Fath‒” he manages to get a word out before the torc chokes him entirely, cutting off his wind. Thor starts to rise up the stairs, not of his own accord. Fandral and Hogun remain behind him, by whatever cause, certainly not loyalty. The telekinetic transport is not under his own control in any fashion. His feet drag as the animated relic hauls him to the glowering All-Father standing in front of the throne.

“Where was Thor Odinson in our hour of challenge? Nowhere to be found.” Odin turns his face, as though he might spit. Anger distorts his profile into something truly dark under that gleaming golden helm, horned and winged. “You have dallied long from your home. You have laid low your duty and your honour low. No more!”

Their people hang on every word, and they flinch when the metallic apparatus dumps Thor at his father's feet. He struggles but the glittering bands force him to arch back, clicking into place after an elongated moment. ‘Tis a position for a captive, his face upturned and his knees apart, supplicant in defeat to his victor. His hands struggle to be free, but they are all but welded atop his knees by the spreading apparatus.

_What in Hel…_

“The sacred art of _seidr_ ,” Odin hisses. “The one you make mock of, Thor. Not even your will can bend the edict of the Norns.”

 _Seidr._ The greatest threat to a warrior is fate, the binding cord of magic. For that, Thor reckons, is the very meaning of _seidr._ His blank stare burns, enraged, and he tries to snarl and snap his bonds in a triumphant explosion of will. His muscles ripple, thunder exploding in a shattering boom outside, and…

Nothing. He is held fast while Odin calls forth to the crowd, “Will you see this rebellious prince serve Asgard?”

The Aesir are proud as any, intense in their acclaim as in their wrath. He takes joy in this always, save now. Inconceivable that they should want their beloved champion cast low -- but no awe greets his ears, his eyes forced to take in Odin and Odin alone.

Their roar is deafening in accord with this fell purpose. Thor's burning electric eyes threaten to incinerate all before him if not for the magic constricting him bodily and spiritually in some stinging shimmer of pain the more he struggles. He can feel the lightning surging above, awaiting his call, and somehow mildly stifled, a connection that will not be made.

Someone rips his tunic away and undoubtedly Odin's will tears Thor's armour from his bowed body in pieces that crash down the stairs. Sif steps aside to avoid a collision, contemptuous of a rolling pauldron, the smashed greaves. Symphonic cymbal crashes of his breastplate and cracked open vambrace ricochet loudly in the collective silence. Crackling metal lies charged in all directions beneath the throne’s bronzed shadows, untouched by those witness to the disgrace of Thor Odinson.

“Bend him to the All-Father's will!” a guard shouts.

“Aye, make him serve if he's too proud to yield!”

Who is the All-Father to deny their requests?

Thor again tries to speak, and fails. At once he calls out for the hammer lurking beyond his reckoning, secured safely in his chamber. The roar of the storm dances to his call, a beckons denied.

"No, I think not. You won't be thwarting the course of justice by bringing  _that_ into it," Odin's voice is barely audible even so close. A sickening wave crashes over the blond and he knows, truly, that something is terribly amiss in Asgard. In his absence, his father's heart has turned or, worse, a poison blights the land he loves. And only he seems to note it, bound by some infernal mechanism on his knees.

Odin buries his hand in those abundant golden locks, hauling the prince close to his knee. Thor topples forward, unable to resist going face first into the black leather of Odin's thigh. Teeth grit at the humiliation exposing his back, a slave awaiting the lash, and his pride strives against the _seidr_ cords cords. Odin's magic may be strong, but surely it has a weakness.

All Asgard watches him struggle and fight, Odin smirking at the difficulties. "Why do you defy the All-Father? Is it so unbearable to acquiesce to my will?"

He spits at Odin's feet.

"Ah! Could it be the prodigal son seeks to unseat the rightful lord and claim the throne for himself?" Odin tightens his fingers and his thunderous proclamation settles on a wordless, unmoving court.

 _This cannot be happening. Od's blood, no_. Thor tries to meet Sif's eye, for surely she at least can see the farce for what it is. Yet in his disgrace her face remains shuttered and downcast, denying him safe harbour even there. Lightning sears the sky outside and they can all hear the atmospheric commotion without, the howling wind rattling at the buildings.  

The hand in his hair is relentless, bonds holding him tight, and the lack of oxygen makes stars erupt in front of his lightning-shot vision. In a futile gasp in, just enough to sustain him, he smells exotic fragrances, mist and snow and sandalwood together, so unlike the wet stone and leather of his father.

_No…  ‘Tis not possible. It cannot be. Loki, what have you done?_

When the thought catches, he shudders violently. Laughter from one of the guards below spreads out as the crowd gathers in their mockery of the fool prince, the golden oaf, ever so slow to catch up with the joke. He sees not the runes burning at his collarbone on a bed of gold or the sigils of power in protective wards shining behind him, announcing guilt to any with the least notion of Asgardian punishment and justice.

Shivering curtains magic tumbles around him in a cold shower, stripping him of any comfort from the brazier warmed air. The golden aura enfolding the All-Father pours down, illusion cast aside while Thor is forced to kneel. Fandral removes that last protection, stripping him to the waist with an awful tearing of fabric, his back naked to the scourge of the metal straps lashed to his collar.

Thor cannot hope to lift his head, nor does he want to. Denial lends the comfort this possibly may be a dream, a feverish dream of too much alcohol and vexed nights.

“O brother, finally where you belong. In service to your king.” Loki, proud and shameless, occupies the place where his father stood. Dispelled lies reveal an even worse truth. 

Words flow in sardonic silk over him as he shudders, face pressed forcefully into dark silk and the parted leather coat, bruising his cheek in a staggered line of golden mail. He need only pull back a few inches to confirm the forest green shade, rather than the subdued navy split coat he last beheld Loki wearing. For all his struggles, the soft, buttery hide brushes against his cheek.

Loki throws his hand out, Gungnir transmogrified in a flash to a glimmering staff. “Behold, Thor humbled!”

Thor roars in silent refusal. The damnable enchantment of the _seidr_ wrapped around him cuts off the words. How many curses he has to hurl at his brother’s feet. Somehow Jarnbjorn fails to answer his call and he can't help but acknowledge the trap laid for him. Now, he must survive it.

“Are you now prepared to show your loyalty, Thor?” Once more the Trickster resumes sitting upon the throne, his knees spread wide, elbow planted against his thigh as he leans lower to witness the fury gathered in a futile, rolling boil in the thunder god’s expression. Thor is forcibly nestled against him like a damn concubine attendant on her king, no accident at all.

The staff crashes against the dais and the Asgardians lend their king tribute. Sif stiffly bends from the waist at the foot of the steps, Hogun and Fandral retreating to their places now that all is well in hand. Men and women amassed before them settle in for another act in the ongoing procession, faces upturned to All-Father and prince in disgrace.

For a moment, the collar loosens, allowing Thor opportunity to speak. “Explain yourself!" 

The bellow rolls out, ended prematurely. He chokes again when Loki sighs and reaches out to grip him by the throat. Cool fingers throw a thrill through him, terrible and horrified. Too similar to the metal grip of his lover taking him in the fits of climax, squeezing lightly on his throat to deprive him of air. His treacherous body knows little different between the sly, lithe dark-haired prince of Asgard -- a trumped up king -- and Bucky Barnes, his dark, breathtaking warrior.

“Do you pledge to cast aside your selfish ambition, Thor? Only yes or no now, let’s keep this most plain.”

Murder burns in his veins. _No, brother, you will never be my master, no matter what you play at it_. The collar chokes him simply out of spite now, forbidding Thor the pleasure of words. Loki damn well must be reading his thoughts for the cant of amusement to his mobile features only deepens. 

That alone prompts Thor to slowly shake his head. He has a moment and then takes a slap full across the face, a sting high on the rampart of his cheekbone. The blow rocks him back onto his heels, and would surely throw him to the floor but for the interlocked metal bands holding him stiff in place. A frisson of terrible desire, so wrongly misplaced, unfurls in the dark garden of his soul.

 _That_ , undoubtedly, his brother reads all too clearly. He strokes the raised welt of the slap, and Thor's pride refuses to let him shy away like an unbroken colt. His neck dimly burns, the restriction loosening to allow him a sip of air, a swallow. 

“See, he refuses to serve the good of this realm. Such insolence in a man given so many privileges." That the Trickster enjoys this is undoubted, the way he preens and beckons to an audience to fulfill the pantomime. "Is it too great to ask that you willingly serve the throne in exchange for the broad freedoms you enjoy? You bend the knee freely for a mortal Midgardner. Why not your own blood?”

Loki flexes his fingers, long and articulate digits mobile as they sketch invisible patterns, a threat of a spell. Hatred and love, disappointment and misplaced affection roil around in a tangled mass too difficult for Thor to sort through. His heart pounds. The pain of the strike barely affects him even as he harbours the sting of betrayal. So many questions burn in his breast, but there is no hope of receiving a single answer in the charade. Loki is a showman, expecting him to play the role. The sooner he bends, the sooner he will be done with this.

Thor mouths a response, the torc loosened up but a fraction to permit his hoarse whisper. “Service?”

“Ah, now you begin to show a shred of sense.”

A thin finger hooked under the point of his jaw pushes Thor’s gaze even higher to meet the crackling green eyes hooded by the gilded circlet. Horns crest over his brother’s dark hair, lending a demonic cast with no right to be found by the throne of Asgard. His thoughts must be plain from that cool, dark chuckle.

“Shall I proclaim your insolence and cast you forth as a traitor, a branded enemy?” Loki muses.

“Tell me what you want, Loki.” The collar squeezes his throat again. Too akin to vibranium fingers. His pulse thunders in his ears, his body bestirring itself. Even in this wretched state, he thinks of Bucky. How the palm forces him to take the thick length of his cock, the taste of him on his lips, the ravaging of his throat.

Loki goes terribly still, and so very close to his brother, Thor can't help but notice the hard stirrings of his erection. The fall of the coat does nothing to conceal his brother's hardening shaft, which moments later he is pressed back against.

The worst violation, his thoughts are open like a book to Loki.

"Plain as day. Not half dull as these things go. I know what you really want," that soft murmur whispers at the back of his skull, where not but Thor share in the abject humiliation. Every memory in bed, the willing bondage on his knees, freshly read and rifled through. 

The laughter floats around them, embers and smoke on the wind. “I want your acquiescence, brother. I want my due from you. Pledge that and you have your place in the realm beside the throne, just as you do now. But one word.”

Thor presses his lips together. What he wants is not this. He'll have Loki's head.

 _No, brother, you really won't. You forget I see all your desires, even the ones you refuse to admit to yourself_.

Loki's voice trails down his spine from within, igniting a convulsive shiver that laps up against the unsettled heat in his core.

 _Did you really wish for me to fuck your throat while Sif sucked you dry? Had you only said something, we might have cleared this all up_ _sooner._

 _No._ No. The childhood fantasy never meant to be, not like this, not in front of everyone. He glares, his thoughts storming, but his brother's  _seidr_ holds him prisoner as surely as the metal collar and chains keep him physically captive. 

“As you are now.” Loki sighs. “Or a disgrace to our father’s memory, consigned to a dungeon for the crimes you commit against Asgard. Your lover suffers. The realms you hold so dear, left without a protector.”

What choice has he? He exhales in a rough breath and nods, the rapt attention behind him growing as the whispers spread in concentric circles. _Blackmail, the play of a wounded heart and an irate brother, is that what this is?_

A shallow nod follows.

His brother smiles. “Ah! Very good. You swear?

He hates this more than anything, but he nods again. For that, a clap of hands crashes in his ears.

“Bear witness, Asgard, that I, Loki, proclaim my brother acquiesces to the throne. Let us rejoice as his service.”

“What would you have me do?” A snarl there, rumbling with thunder, curls Thor’s lip.

“Why, brother, simple enough. Exactly what you want to do, nothing more..” The smile builds in a smooth honeyed tide, almost feline, shrouded in its own darkness. “Open your mouth.” His fingers pause at the golden line of his belt, yanking the tongue free. “I’ve waited long enough for this.”

The metal tightens around the bound god and holds him fast. “No.”

Loki’s laugh is a sonnet in twilight, a tremble of silk and a plaintive sigh as he drops the belt to the ground in a coil of leather and polished sun-bright metal. “Oh, precious, darling Thor. _Yes_. You paid for your freedom with a simple act of service. Now suck.”

 

* * *

 

How the mighty have fallen. Thousands of Asgardians come to witness the court of Loki Odinson, the All-Father, take in the festival-like atmosphere.

Storms rage outside, pelting the peaked spires of Valhalla in a white-hot crackle of plasma. Lightning arcs from rooftop to rooftop. Raging winds batter at gold sheets embossed by dramatic scenes out of the Golden Realms history: heroic gods tackling wolves and wrestling giants, exerting dominion over the Nine Realms on a progress of peace in their arch-necked ships. They cannot disturb the feverish, torrid atmosphere within the All-Father's mighty hall.

Thor kneels, stripped to the waist, before the blessed throne of his forefathers. Gone are the emblems of pride, his armour scattered and his dreaded hammer imprisoned in his chambers. Vanished, the signs of favour, his winged helm nowhere to be seen and his cape removed.

The clearest sign of his status lies over his broad shoulders, a golden collar worthy of the dark-haired god looming over him. Tangling strands tough as uru, the fabled star metal, enclose his throat in a mesh he cannot break. The webs loop across his chest like the curling hair of a maiden, forging thick chains that clamp around his wrists. Whatever might of the tempest battering the city, the god of thunder is laid low by an even greater power than his own.

This they witness, rapt and shining eyed, breaths collectively held. Double rows of soldiers in their court finery stand between the crowd of Asgard's citizens and the central aisle leading up to the elevated dais where Loki rules his domain. Some might dare to crow their contempt or glee for seeing him in such a state. But the majority withhold commentary, hinging on every passing second.

The treasured heir. The pampered prince. The mighty champion.

Never in his long life of three millennia has Thor been reduced to such depths, positioned beneath the lowliest bond servant, not that a society like Asgard tolerates such ideas of servitude and slavery. Worse than the hounds keepers in Svartalfheim, and theirs is a lot worse than death. He's met Malekith and seen what that dreadful system produces.

The choice he made was no choice at all, hardly any comfort with the chilly marble under his knees or the goading lash of Fandral's whip tasting the bare skin betwixt his shoulder blades. Only the strongest enchantments stand any hope of breaking his flesh, and Thor yet knows the malicious  _ seidr  _ \-- the binding craft of Asgardian magic, rarely practiced by honest men and virtuous women -- leaves him captive and helpless. Everywhere he looks, no friendly faces await him.

 

The lone helping hand guides him to the exposed alabaster shaft. Loki's jotun heritage was long a mystery to Thor, though had he ever been eye to eye with his brother like this, any doubt might flee his mind. Asgardian endowments aside, Loki's hung like, well, a giant.

“Thank you, brother, though flattery is hardly necessary. You have always been more gifted with your strength of arms than your quick-witted tongue,” Loki purrs, irony lacing his words.

Never forget the telepathic connection forged in secret. Thor bites his cheek and rocks at the pain gliding over the shame of that violation, privacy of his thoughts stripped away.

A nudge knocks him onto his knees, temple pressed up hard against the declining curve of Loki's hip bone. Plain intention all but smacks him in the face, the dense weight of the cock rubbing up against his cheek. He turns his head, only for Loki to bring down his other hand. Skull cradled in that broad grip, he has no choice but to rub himself like a cat against the thickness soon to be buried in his mouth.

“Now you're getting the picture.”

His shoulders tense and the collar -- shaped as a torc -- tightens slowly around his windpipe to threaten to cut off oxygen again. His eyes blaze in response, pits of pure light.

A murmuring through the still crowd barely reaches his ears, and he can hardly forget his position in the great hall of his forefathers. Loki smirks down at him and keeps using him roughly, thrusting his arching phallus over Thor's chin and cheek, slapping him sometimes across the face with the blunt strikes that hardly hurt, only enflame his anger.

Every drag on his lip pulls it out and he grits his teeth, that much still remaining to the dishevelled, imprisoned prince of Asgard. Loki delights in nettling him, pushing the excessive, oversized hardness perpendicular across his mouth, this way and that, leaving streaks of moist heat in his wake.

‘Get on with it,” Loki commands him. “Sooner or later I'll have your mouth. You really might prefer to acquiesce.”

To surrender.

“Well, that.” Flicking his sleek raven locks out of his face, Loki for an instant appears less as the helmed and crowned lord of Asgard and someone else painfully familiar. Loose dark locks swept over a harder, squared jaw covered in a shadow of stubble.  _ No, don't remember _ .

Too late. Loki places the fat bell of his corona against Thor's mouth and hums, rocking ever so slightly on his heels while keeping his brother at arm's reach. “Oh, now, that  _ does  _ change everything, doesn't it? Are you holding out?”   
  
Thor hisses, the sound low and deprived of its usual basso grumble. He clenches his teeth when his head is tilted back to make eye contact. How could he possibly mistake this moment for anything like his intimate ones with Bucky? Never in a --

“I could make it easier for you.”    
  
They can't hear the All-Father, at least he prays not. Perhaps the Warriors Three and Sif, assembled at the bottom of the stairs to watch the drama unfolding on the throne in sight of everything, everyone. He clings to that notion for a moment.

He tries to shake his head. He'll be damned if he takes the easy route.    
  
Loki smacks his cock firmly against Thor's mouth, every second counted by that obscene metronome needle. “Are you sure? Do a good job, Thor, and you can forget you were here at all. I might even give you something to soothe the smarting ego.”

He can taste the salt dribbling on his mouth, lips swelling as each rhythmic spank flattens them to his teeth. The rosy pout rarely seen by any, save his lovers, takes on form slowly as each strike lavishes unwanted attention. The effect must appeal to his younger brother, for the lengthening hardness grows slightly larger, throbbing in those cunning, agile digits.

Jarnbjorn will not come. His allies are bewitched. Some manner of spellcraft repels the storm. Thor Odinson is out of options.

This is a gift he has only bestowed upon James Barnes in the last century at least. To profane those bright memories of kneeling before the Winter Soldier digs hard into his spirit, and Loki knows it, thrives on causing him the same incoherent pain and formless rage as apparently he suffers. Thor knows not of the cause, for a man pampered and raised in splendour amongst the greatest luminaries of the Nine Realms would have surely no reason for complaint.

The wrong thing to believe. Loki seizes his jaw, squeezing painfully hard, and the arresting chains clamp down around him to force him to tilt back. “You know nothing! You, always spoiled and feckless, taking all for granted. Learn your place by serving, or suffer.”

His composure cracked gives a bitter thrill for all it hurts, sending Thor reeling. He has barely a moment before thumbs and fingers pry his teeth open. In the remorseless adjustment, he catches the scalding warning captured in emerald eyes impassioned by some sleight --  _ truly he's pained, this is the cry of a wounded heart. _

He loves his brother. Always has adored his stalwart companion, the blithe adventurer, the intellectual one. But not like this, not here on display.

Loki.

The mask drops down on the All-Father and once more his face is a mask of devil-may-care charm and triumph. Green eyes flickering and hard.

Not blue. Not so pale a blue as to resemble an Arctic dawn, full of implacable demands he hastens himself to fulfill. That is the colour of passion and desire, his blood running hot at the mere thought of the deep icy gaze of his lover, of James, and that thought tightens Loki's grip on him. Possessive. He hurts. Green holds such tormented comparisons to the quiet command of a mortal.

Thor loves his brother, even in ways mortal law would never permit. But so too he loves a mortal, and sees no transgressions in holding the two in his heart.

And then it doesn't matter anymore. So much like Bucky -- exactly so -- Thor finds his lips parted by the tip of Loki's cock, easily larger than a fruit and sufficient to choke him slightly. A careful lover might allow him time to taste his way around the spongy bell, lapping at the contours, but his brother is not careful.

Greed or wrath in a volatile brew guide him, and three hard thrusts leave Thor choking on the cock that skewers his throat, pulled down. His cheeks blow out as he tries to draw oxygen, and the relentless progress crams those dense, wide inches further into his mouth.

Loki lifts his hand into the air almost triumphantly, the slow undulations of his buttocks under his long coat causing the split panels to ripple. On high, all can see the kneeling prince leaning in, golden hair bracketed by his hand. They might not view the long shaft plunging into those warm lips, but they hear the spluttering and the soft choking, amplified by some artifice.

A sigh passes over several men and women's lips, taken up louder and fuller as a hymn of satisfaction. Thor wishes he didn't hate them all, but without the torc, he would wipe the hall clean with lightning and obliterate the flinders left after that bombardment.

“And that,” Loki says, voice tight and thick, “is why I am the All-Father and you serve.”

Serve. He loves serving the mortals who ravish him with their vitality and hot-burning spirits, or the immortal peers close to his heart. Rarely does he choose to go to his knees, but this is not choice, this is necessity. Something to be endured.

His throat aches as the too large cock nestles along the silken walls, plowed deeper, Loki releasing him to tilt and impale himself if he means to stay up. His neck bulges to the shape of his brother's phallus, something he cannot see but acutely feels. Lips press to Loki's balls, hairless and thick, and there he remains with his eyes streaming at the pressure.

“Behold,” Sif sings her treacherous hymn, “Thor acknowledges the supremacy of the All-Father.”

It's not like that at all. Thor chokes and hovers, dazed.

How heavenly the sensation must be, for Loki arches his back, spreading his feet wider for a support. Time ceases to hold meaning while he reaps his pleasure of his elder brother, withdrawing only a few inches to admire the gleaming saliva polishing his skin, the swollen lips clinging to him.

“Yes, I can see very much why your mortal treasures this. It may be the only thing he's had good sense about.”

The next thrust chokes Thor’s verbalized response, his futile efforts to speak reverberating the gag of taut, warm cockmeat unabashedly fucking his face. Holding on and not biting, his last revenge, is so damn hard. The elder prince clenched his fists and his chains rattle, clinching him tighter, pinning his arms to his sides.

Loki aids him little other than to roll his hips in circles and tick up the tempo to something akin to a canter, pounding his yielding throat. The concerted efforts of his throat muscles to push out the obstruction wear down, for they're an evenly matched team, his fortitude for the heat of Loki's fury and no doubt something of the Odinforce buoying him up. Or  _ seidr _ , a likelier course.

Magic that might best even Thor's legendary resolve. He quivers and shudders as the pace sends drool running down his chin, leaking out the corners of his lips. Surely if he can just get Loki to come, this will be over, and then… Then. Some time after, some resolution may follow.

His lips half-heartedly form to the fat shaft pumping in and out of his mouth. He shuts his eyes, trying to imagine another situation, a bedroom scattered by clothes, the taste of his lover's tang on his tongue.

The slurp sends a shock through the crowd -- they each and every one hear it, then feel the borrowed sensation through them. The same pull of his lips seems to travel along Thor's own cock and he instantly responds, beginning to harden to that blowjob delivered in, admittedly, a less than desirable fashion.

His eyes open and he stares up to see that familiar old smirk. “I did say I could make it worthwhile for an earnest performance. Will you disappoint?”

Thor can hardly swallow without the inexorable pull stirring him harder in his pants, and he flattens his tongue, hearing the cat calls emerging from somewhere beyond Loki and the dais and his own humiliation.

“Suck the All-Father, boy! That the best you can do?”

“With feeling! Show him you want him, if you have any honour.”

Anger crackles around him, even as the sensation of his own mouth stroking up and down his rigid length becomes an indescribable sensation. The way his tongue stubbornly lies flat along his teeth, a hitch grazes up the vein. He bucks helplessly to that roughness unexpectedly delivered, right as Loki shifts the angle of his head and presses right down until Thor's lips mash up against the pulsing root.

That ticklish sensation lead him to gasp, and the suction, his own fluttering throat, dance in the corresponding phantom caresses constricting his fat cock now at full mast.

“Show me your service, Thor. Prove you don't want this.” Loki curls that maddening smirk, the one that gave Thor the strangest mixed emotions in their youth. Now some cool stirrings break out of the icy glaciers of their history, so long and convoluted.

Thor growls. The vibrations stir up his brother's shaft, humming all the way along, and his jaw goes slack at the echoed purr.

“Oh yes, that's it.” His brother clutches the thunder god by the back of the head and resumes pumping hard and fast into his mouth, wedging his tip deep down Thor's throat and holding fast for far longer than any human could tolerate. By that rate, they'd be passed out from a lack of oxygen, but his brother's struggling proves impossibly tantalizing, unbearably hot and sweet.

Desperation tips the balance and when he feels the weak suckling, Loki draws back, allowing for a deep, fraught breath. “More. There, brother, more.”

Thor has his back to the crowd, he knows nothing of their collective demise into pleasured caresses and furtive masturbating in public, heedless of any cares. He knows only the thin strand of consciousness holding him to this realm and the thickness robbing the ability to speak. Frustration and the slow sinking into the depths of the fugue Bucky induces in him somehow mingle, somehow match up.

He sucks.

Not with great precision or vigor; he's too overwrought for that, but Thor is a wet, willing mouth unable to move for his bondage, and that satisfies the All-Father plenty. His rough movements fall into a cadence, using Thor hard, fucking him with no remorse. They can all hear the slurping of those pink lips, the grunts of effort when Loki bottoms out.

Cheeks red, chin wet, Thor can only focus on what plumbs his mouth in ruthless vigor. He dares look up only the once…

...and it's Bucky fucking his mouth, Bucky's thick length jackhammering him and giving no quarter. That firm metal hand in his hair keeping him at the right height, positioned exquisitely to give pleasure and in return receive his due. Thor blinks and his brother is there, head thrown back in mad delight, narrow chest rising and falling at the exertion.

…then Bucky, once more. Head tilted forward, his dark hair sways over his shadowed face, leaving a glimmer of intense focus. The blond can spread no thought except to rise to the occasion, tongue lapping at the hard cock as it buries itself again, again, and again.

Time flees from him. He loses all sense except his aching throat and the heady sublime glory of serving, giving himself in love and trust to the man who holds his heart. Trust, that all shall be well.

But fuck, Thor still hasn't made him come.

No. Not yet.

Something shifts after that hot and his prize rips free from his lips, leaving him gasping and frozen on his knees in a cocoon of shining golden links.

“That looks good on you.” Not condemnation, really, but the off handed comment stings in a way. Thor blinks again, frustrated and the need in his pulsating cock untouched by anyone plainly there. He drips a welling bead of precum.

“You always did want to fuck on the throne, didn't you?” Loki asks.

Loki, not James Barnes. His senses peel away in the illusion, but his body craves the smirking sorcerer stripping off his coat, down to his deep emerald shirt and long leather tunic.

“Brother, why have you…?” His voice is hoarse, ravaged.

“Because you never would. You gave me no other way but this. Remember that,” Loki snarls.

A flick of the wrist and Thor lands upon the throne, forced upright. His chains melt into the golden arms and the greater structure, too strong for him to break if he were not already poleaxed in shock. Shaking against his serpentine coils of gilt links roped together, the gravity of the situation strikes Thor.

He sits upon his father's throne, and Loki joins him a moment later, stepping up onto the broad, squared off arm.

“You always wanted his throne. So you're upon it. As  _ mine _ .” The last word thrown between them sharp as a knife cuts to the quick and Thor parts his lips, unsure of an answer or a benediction to deliver upon his brother.

For he can feel the hurt, and see the rage clear, as though all the mists finally peeled back to expose a landscape full of treacherous marshes and drowning deep lakes unbeknownst to him in all his years. James has taught Thor a thing or two for hidden quagmires and offering solace, a hand in the darkness of the soul.

None of the revelation eases the sharp cuts of betrayal, but they salve the wild confusion. The cold throne steals away the warmth of Thor's body and he trembles, whilst Loki's shadow falls over him, narrow as a spear thrust into the heart. Hands clasp his head once more and Loki fills his mouth, hammering into him roughly at first.

It takes time for his tempo to smooth out, ravaging the bound man's lips and demanding worship. Thor truly could fight -- and some small part rages still -- but he thinks he has Loki's number now. Understands what all this is, a dire need for acceptance, a catastrophic deviation from the warm brotherly relationship for something else and dark and dripping with passion.

His brother snarls. A wounded, vehement sound, more primal than civilised, and the tempo for the hammering on the back of his throat expands. Loki rams himself deep, holding Thor tight to his groin.

Questing fingertips curl around the bulge in Thor's throat and stroke even as minute thrusts rock back and forth, making a complete soaking mess of the blond god's chin and throat. His collar sparkles in the light.

For Thor, those phantasmal echoes upon his own cock are nigh too intense to bear: hot, demanding, the suction heightened in force and strength and fervor. Tears run down his face as he gives in, hoping for an end, afraid what happens if it ever ends. His own confusion and fervor must feed Loki's own, for the thickening of his cock presages his seed leaking down Thor's throat.

“All hail Loki Odinson, the All-Father, as he proclaims the acceptance of Thor into Asgard.” The herald's cry sends a shiver into the dark-haired prince -- usurper, brother, lover -- and bows his back, for even his fortitude is not infinite under such circumstances.

The dam withholding a millennia of impatience and thwarted need breaks. One good hit is all it takes. Complex, diverse impressions left from Thor sucking and his yielding throat set the stage for Loki's ruin. His resistance gives way with a shattering cry captured by the acoustics.

He pumps out a gush of his come straight into Thor's belly, the volume so great that liquid leaks around his shaft, filling the blond's mouth. Some of the pearly white cream runs over his stretched lips, massaged in by the erratic, faltering thrusts. Loki sags against the throne, the moment of seized bliss lasting on and on.

Bound and helpless, Thor can only swallow. He can only imagine Bucky ejaculating into his mouth, but impossible to ignore the grip of his brother's hands in his hair. The different flavour, so crisp and almost invigorating, thick as the come is.

“Loki,” he mutters.

The sorcerer pushes deep once more, choking him.

Minutes pass in their gasping and moaning, mingled in a divine halo before the whole court. Thor can see nothing of them, only hear their restless stirring, deprived of sight and sound, anything beyond the heated, commanding presence of his brother.

Loki disengages from him, floating back into the air. A sharp gesture, wrist rolled and fingers pinched, has the immediate effect of clothing him again in his gold and deep green leathers, restored again to his splendour.

He stares at the herald and warriors below, his honour guard at the ready. “Leave him as he is. Sif, attend me. I have a need of you.”

Thor watches in breathless disbelief as she falls in step behind her, finally loosening her sword and drawing the polished blade. A slice opens a gateway, and by experience the Thunderer knows it may be to anywhere, and she holds the way as Loki glides through.

His vassals cry out “Loki!” and “All-Father!”

_ It cannot be. _ The cool metal of his collar and chains blend into the throne, forcing him to sprawl supine, hard, untouched. Ignored.

Sif vanishes through the portal, and with her goes the light, the scene collapsing into a revelation of shadow.

* * *

 

Thor jerks upright, shouting, cursing in Aesir. His knees crash into the underside of a table, disrupting the plates and sending them scattering to the floor. Bread and finely diced vegetables pepper the air like confetti, thrown over a black-clad figure.

Steve and Tony rise out of their seats, red baskets upset on the crooked tabletop. A failed effort to capture their dinner folds Wanda over the table, reaching out to catch a shawarma before it hits the ground.

Thor sucks in a sharp breath.

“What the hell! Next time you don't want salad, just say so.” Clint wipes the tabbouleh off his shirt and coat.

“Where's Barnes?” he barks out.

“At work with Nat. You okay?” Steve replies.

"He's not here. I have to find him."

"Thor?" Clint repeats himself. "You cool?"

Not certain to be free of the scourge of his brother. Even if just a dream, Thor knows better than to ignore his intuition.

Looks exchanged between the group only stir the unease in his veins, and Thor throws aside his napkin, rushing outside into the wild, messy clamour of Harlem. Few bystanders bother looking at the man blocking the door of Shawarma Kingdom, and he looks around into the sunshine.

Nothing looks amiss. It takes him only a moment to gather his thoughts, and Thor stops himself from stalking up the block. He rubs the back of his head, and the tender bruises there warrant a greater sense of exploration. Feeling the marks, he yanks his shirt collar aside and stares into a shopfront window.

His gaze falls upon the twisted knotwork biting into his throat, marks biting deep into his skin.

_ Od's blood. _


End file.
